The Pull

​Ever the push and pull of time
throughout the tides
of days and lives.
 
And now as Autumn turns
and leaves free-falling
bare the branch for Spring
I pull old wellies on and step
out of the warm
as the dog pulls
and the soup cools on the stove.
 
I slip and slide down the field
Water oozing into puddled steps,
Amazed to see a lone buttercup hanging on
to Summer,
The dog, set free
is tail-tip alert,
nose-deep in the mush
and rush of quivering
anticipation,
careering towards the bridge
above the swollen stream.
 
Bracken-brown the water
tumbles from the moor
under these mossy boards.
A million times it falls,
repeating its course
from sky to tide
upon some lace-edged shore
and here it rushes ‘neath my feet.
I am in awe. I am but small.
 
A startled squirrel darts
and I am pulled to present,
The dog losing the scent
stands puzzled in a mess of
mouldering leaves,
a rich decay of tapestry
upon the bouldered path.
The air shifts, rain is on its way,
I push on towards the farm
and home,
Words rising, dancing, dying
to be written on the page.

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